


Caught

by speakingwosound (sev313)



Category: Tennis RPF
Genre: 5 Times, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-12
Updated: 2016-07-12
Packaged: 2018-07-19 19:42:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7374874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sev313/pseuds/speakingwosound
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Oui, mon ami, everything makes sense now, doesn't it?"</p><p>Or, five times Andy and Rafa were caught in compromising situations.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Caught

**Author's Note:**

  * For [polkadot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/polkadot/gifts).



> Written for [Not Prime Time 2016](http://not-primetime.livejournal.com/) for polkadot, who asked for happy Rafa, which was strangely hard for me? Anyway, I was inspired by [all](http://stainyourhands.tumblr.com/post/137713900692/stan-the-man-4ever-amelie-and-andy-during) [the](http://stainyourhands.tumblr.com/post/144779489528) [times](http://stainyourhands.tumblr.com/post/144678820558/andy-murray-and-rafael-nadal-practice-ahead-of-the) Rafa and Andy have practiced together this year, and, honestly, this came out as just a reason to write a lot of porn with some errant feelings. I hope this fic is at least somewhat of what you had in mind. 
> 
> Also, sidenote, I wrote the Wimbledon part about three weeks before Wimbledon started – I hope it’s prophecy (*fingers crossed*)!

**1\. Australian Open, January 2016**

"Winner buys lunch."

Andy leans against the net, resting his racquet on his foot. "Lunch is free in the player's hall. No deal."

Rafa pulls his knee close to his chest so that he can reach his shoe. He unties his laces and meticulously ties them again, tighter, as he amends, "Real lunch, not in cafeteria."

"Dinner," Andy bargains.

"Steak dinner." Toni adds, bouncing a ball against his racquet, a rhythmic thump-thump against the hard court.

Andy scowls across the net. "Who's making this bet?"

"Is good idea, no?" Rafa looks back and forth from Andy to Toni, and back again. "Steak, for everyone." He drops his foot to the ground and stands up, holding out his hand. "Deal?"

Grumbling, Andy takes it. "Deal."

Rafa's index finger slides against Andy's palm, gently, briefly, a reminder of the other, more private deal they'd made that morning. Then he pulls away, jumping twice in place before racing to his baseline.

Andy walks slower back to his, and Amelie falls into step beside him. "I like steak."

Andy raises an eyebrow. "The way the deal works, you'll get it either way."

"Sure, but he should pay." She holds out her fist for him to tap. "He makes more money than you do."

He grunts, affronted, and keeps his hands at his sides. She laughs, changing course to squeeze his shoulder. 

"Is tennis played with the balls or with the talking?" Toni calls over the net.

Amelie doesn't bother to stifle her laughter as she holds her hand out again, this time gripping two tennis balls.

Andy grumbles, but accepts the peace offering, and offers one of his own. "I think the balls are optional, don't you?" He winks as he tees off a serve that sends Rafa scrambling off his baseline.

Amelie hasn't quite stopped laughing as she nods appreciatively. "I can taste that steak."

***

"Two games away," Amelie says, rubbing her hands together after Andy holds serve to go up 4-3 in their end-of-practice scrimmage set.

On the opposite baseline, Rafa plants his foot, pushing his hair behind his ears and bouncing the ball.

Andy squares his feet.

"Maybe I'll order the ribeye?" She muses. "With a nice side of mashed potatoes for Aaron."

Andy glances back at her, and regrets it as Rafa's serve comes soaring towards him and hits square between his thighs. Andy groans, bending over, fingers white as they grip his knees, trying to draw the white-hot shoot of pain from his balls into his legs.

Amelie rubs his shoulder, her hand warm and gentle and soothing, but when he glances up she's grinning guiltily. "So about those balls," she tries.

"That's what a coach is for," Toni calls through a shit-eating grin.

Rafa holds his racquet up in apology, looking worried under a helpless grin of his own.

Andy grunts again, straightening his legs and trying, valiantly, to adjust himself around the heavy ache settling between his legs.

Amelie leans her elbow against his shoulder. "Better get your credit card ready."

Andy closes his eyes and leans a little of his weight against her.

***

Dinner is a raucous affair. 

They're given a long table near the back, and once Andy pulls out his card for the manager, they're allowed to be as loud and disruptive as they want.

Aaron makes sure that each of them has a healthy serving of potatoes, plates optional.

Toni makes sure that their glasses are always full of the best 12% ABV craft beer on tap.

Rafa makes sure to drive Andy to distraction, as he slips off his shoe and slides his foot under the hem of Andy's jeans, stroking tantalizing circles against Andy’s skin with his big toe.

Andy bites his tongue against a groan, and, distracted, the bouncing rhythm of his knees stutters. His calm disrupted, Aaron opens his eyes to stare at Andy, a wide, wet warning, before he screws up his face in a wale. 

Andy cringes against the sound. "Hey, hey," he tries, picking up his rhythm again, dislodging Rafa's foot. "Sorry, buddy, sorry." 

Aaron considers Andy for a moment, then starts to cry harder.

Rafa pushes against Andy's foot, looking guilty. "I go to bathroom."

Andy watches Rafa go as he lifts Aaron to his chest, rubbing his back with little success.

Finally, Amelie reaches over to rescue him, cooing and whispering in a steady stream of French that has Aaron gulping and clutching at her shirt.

Andy wipes at his own shirt, using it as an excuse as he says, "I'm, um, I could use the toilet as well," and slides out from behind the table.

He can still hear Aaron’s cries and Toni’s wise cracks as he finds his way to the back of the restaurant, following the arrows to the toilets. The bathrooms are individuals, and he knocks quietly on the men's. Rafa sticks his head out, frowning as he grasps Andy's forearm and pulls him in. 

"What if it hadn't been me?" Andy asks, as slips in and closes the door behind him with his foot.

Rafa shrugs. "I say I wait for someone. Secret drug deal. No one question." Rafa's voice is light, easy, but Rafa doesn't do light and easy, not when the papers are thick with the French minister’s accusations.

"They're idiots, yeah?" Andy tries, dipping his head to catch Rafa's eyes. “Just jealous of all those wins. I can relate to that.”

Rafa tries to laugh, but it comes out shaky and he drops his head, his accent twisting around his words. "Is my country, no? Second country. Paris, it is the most important city in my career."

"The sports minister doesn't speak for the entire country."

Rafa huffs. 

"Besides, if you need another second country, Britain will be waiting for you."

Rafa frowns. "Britain not even like you most of the time."

Andy laughs. "Scotland, then."

"Scotland, si, yes, is good. I like Scotland." Rafa's frown lightens. "The rain, the cold, I will get used to, no?"

Andy chuckles, shaking against Rafa's chest. "Yeah, you'll get used to it. And we can winter in Mallorca."

It sounds good, rolling off his tongue with the accent he's been trying to perfect under Rafa's endlessly-patient guidance, and Rafa surges up to kiss him. His mouth is warm and soft, his body radiating heat as he turns them gracefully, pushing Andy back against the sink and slipping his hand into Andy's pants in the same movement.

"Is okay?" He asks, cupping Andy's dick in his palm. "I not hurt?"

"Well." Andy rubs at the back of his neck. "It did hurt. A bloody lot."

"Not permanent, no?" Rafa flicks open the button on his jeans, practiced and smooth, his face screwing up in concentration as he slips his hand under the waistband of Andy's briefs. "Still work?"

"Why don't," Andy breathes through his nose as he arches his hips into Rafa's touch, "you test it out, yeah?"

Rafa nods, all serious. "Si, is important. You still have bet to make good on."

Andy's breath hitches as Rafa pushes Andy's jeans and briefs halfway down his thighs, careful not to get the waistbands caught on his sore balls. "My mouth still works even if my dick doesn't."

"Is sort of connected," Rafa reasons, still looking down at his hand as he inspects every inch of Andy as Andy grows and thickens in his hand. "Still work, no?" He asks again, a little smug this time.

Andy huffs out a laugh, breathing thick against the back of Rafa's ear as he teases. "I don't know. It still hurts a little."

"Yes, si, I see. It hurt here?" Rafa cups his balls, feeling behind them for the smooth slip of skin that makes Andy's knees go weak.

"Yeah, hurts a bit there."

Rafa hums thoughtfully, before moving his hand up, tracing the vein that pops on the underside of Andy's dick. "Here? I think is black and blue, yes?"

"Yeah," Andy agrees, wrapping his arm around Rafa's shoulders to keep himself upright. "A little bruised there, I think."

Rafa hums again, a little apologetically when his thumb catches under the head of Andy’s dick and Andy keens, a startled groan that he barely manages to bite back to an acceptable volume. "Definitely hurt here," Rafa observes.

"Definitely."

"And here." Rafa's thumb swirls in the steady stream of precome leaking from Andy’s tip.

"All your fault," Andy agrees. "You probably shouldn't serve so hard."

"No," Rafa muses, spreading his hand so that he can cup Andy, calloused and rough and so, so gentle. "Is too precious, no? I be more careful, in future."

"Better be," Andy laughs, hitching his hip onto the edge of the sink so that he can lean closer, start to thrust in a steady rhythm into Rafa's palm.

Rafa leans forward, catching Andy's ear between his teeth as he tugs at Andy's dick.

Andy's ears are filled with white noise as he concentrates on Rafa's heavy breath and his own groans, the slick sound of Rafa's hand on his dick, and the slide of his skin against the porcelain sink. 

It takes a moment, then, for the click of the door opening to register, the new sound jarring and strange. He’s still thrusting, still moaning deeply into Rafa’s ear as he turns his forehead on Rafa's shoulder, biting a strangled sound into Rafa's muscles as he pulls his hips away and grabs for his pants.

Amelie lets the door slam heavily behind her as she stands, frozen, her eyes trained on the curve of Rafa's back and the obvious movement of his hand and the sweat building along Andy's hairline.

Rafa turns, his hand tightening against Andy's dick as he takes in Amelie, letting out a stream of Spanish.

"Fuck, Raf," Andy protests, grabbing for Rafa's elbow.

"Lo siento," Rafa lets him go, quickly enough to hurt.

"Fuck," Andy repeats, bending over to pull his jeans the rest of the way up and closed. 

The downturn of Rafa's mouth is apologetic as he stands in the middle of the bathroom, his arms crossed tightly across his chest, his mouth blushed and his eyes dark as he looks from Andy to Amelie.

Aaron slips his thumb into his mouth, too young to understand what he's seeing even as Amelie covers his eyes. He giggles happily at the game as her chest shakes with laughter. "Serves me right for using the men's room to feed him," she admits, shrugging through her laughter.

"Amelie-" Andy tries, not sure how he's intending to end that sentence.

She taps her hand against his chest, leaning up to press a kiss to his cheek. "Oui, mon ami, everything makes sense now, doesn't it?"

"Ahh," Andy tries, but he doesn't know how to end that sentence any better than the last.

"Next time," she rescues him with a wink, "make sure you lock the door."

**2\. Mallorca, April 2016**

"I wish I had known that Andy was going to be here," Xisca huffs as she spreads a series of papers on the table in the conference room at Rafa's academy. "It would have been great publicity."

Rafa hums, accepting the pen she hands him and starting to sign the papers.

"You should have told me," she continues, in that voice that means _the things I do for you, the least you can do is_ help _me._

Rafa pauses as the words finally register, his pen poised above the table. "Andy's here? In Spain?"

She narrows her eyes. "In Mallorca."

Rafa must look as surprised as he feels, because her expression softens and she laughs. At him, he's pretty sure.

"He should have told _you_ ," she amends.

"He doesn't-" Rafa swallows, regretting trusting her. Regretting that day, months ago now, when she caught him smiling stupidly at his phone and demanded to know who he was talking to. For that matter, regretting the day, over a decade ago, when they met in a club in Palma, her with her girlfriends, he with whichever stranger he was trying to fuck. She had recognized him, instantly, as a tennis player and as a kindred spirit, and had agreed, readily, to play beard whenever he needed. He loves her for it, but it’s no reason for her to be smiling at him like that.

“It’s not like that,” he continues, frowning. “He doesn't need to tell me where he's training or who he's training with."

His voice rises at the end, like a question, and she smiles, wide and indulgent and all-knowing. Like always. "Carlos and Roanic," she provides, blithely.

"Oh." 

She pats his arm. "I'll call Carlos, invite them all."

Rafa forces himself to argue, "that's not a good idea," even though his body's thrumming with how much he wants it. It’s been weeks since Andy crashed out of Miami and left, his entourage in tow, to regroup in London. Rafa misses him, but, to have him here? With the cameras and the press and-

"Don't worry so much," Xisca waves him away. "The press has pegged you fucking Carlos for years. With him around, no one will think twice about Andy."

Rafa swallows, but he doesn’t argue.

***

Andy's soaring across the clay like he owns it.

Rafa takes a long draw of electrolytes and remembers Andy the way he was, fifteen and anxious, with nothing to his name but a large head of frizzy curls, a hair-trigger temper, and a will to work that matched Rafa's own. Tennis was the only common language between them, but Rafa had never met anyone who understood him better. Even then, though, Andy had been tentative on clay. Unsure and uncomfortable in ways Rafa’s never understood. 

Rafa's spent fifteen years trying to convince Andy that clay was tailor-made for his game, and he feels a little proud, watching him now. It looks like Andy belongs here, like he was made to play on Spanish soil. Like, maybe, possibly, Andy feels as comfortable, here, on clay, in Mallorca, with _Rafa_ as he does in the frozen mud of Northern Scotland.

Carlos falls onto the bench next to Rafa, speaking in low, rapid Catalan. "Looks like you've finally got some competition."

Rafa snorts into his sports drink. "I've had competition for a while now."

"Hmm." Carlos drops his arm along the back of the bench, wrapping his fingers around the back of Rafa's neck. "You seem happy, kid."

On court, Andy dumps a backhand into the net and swears loud enough for the cameras to pick it up. He glares at their bench and grouses, "Now I know why you wanted me here, so I can promote your Academy while you sun bathe."

"Is good for my skin," Rafa demurs, slipping into English as he holds out his arm and waves his wrist to draw attention to his forearm.

Next to him, Carlos claps his knees loudly.

On court, Andy scowls.

Rafa ignores them both, jumping up to lay a casual hand on Andy's shoulder. "We go fishing after we play. Good for your skin, too. Is needed."

"I'm Scottish," Andy mutters. "I'm allergic to the sun."

“Half Spanish now,” Rafa argues.

Andy doesn’t argue.

***

"I don't know what I'm doing," Andy complains as he tries to thread his fishing pole and, instead, pokes angry red dots into his thumb.

Rafa slaps his hands away. "You are doing it wrong, no?"

"No, I don't know." Andy glares at him. "If I knew I wouldn't be doing it."

Rafa ignores the dig and holds up the rod and the twine. "I teach you."

"I've gotta be honest, I really don't care-"

Rafa shushes him. "Is easy," he promises, threading the rod and handing it to Andy.

"It's really not," Andy frowns. He continues grumbling even as Rafa steps up behind him, one hand on Andy's hip and the other on his elbow, leading him through the cast.

"Good, si? Is easy."

"I don't know," Andy frowns, turning to raise an eyebrow at Rafa. "Was it good?"

Rafa slips his fingers under the waistband of Andy's trunks, dipping low enough to scratch through his thick patch of dark curls. "Bueno, si, bueno."

Andy grunts, leaning back against Rafa's chest. "This is a kind of fishing I can get behind."

Rafa curls his finger around Andy's dick, and pauses. "You catch fish."

Andy twists his hips, pushing into Rafa's still hand, trying to get him to move. "Can we drop the fish metaphor now?"

"No, you catch fish," Rafa repeats, nodding at the rod Andy's still holding. It's shaking a little and Andy lets out a surprised grunt, tightening his hands around the handle and pulling.

"Shit, what do I do?"

"Slow." Rafa pulls his hands out of Andy's pants and wraps them around Andy's. "Reel him slow."

Andy watches, eyes wide, as his line shortens and the fish flops to the deck at Andy's bare feet. Andy steps away, staring at it like it’s the biggest thing he's ever seen.

"It is small," Rafa says as he crouches down to loosen its jaw from the hook. "We throw it back."

"What?" Andy glares from the fish to Rafa. "It's not that small."

“Is pretty small.” Rafa holds it up for a moment. “Is law, when so small.”

“Fishing is the worst sport.”

"I make up to you," Rafa promises as he shrugs, taking one last look at the fish before throwing it back into the ocean.

Andy crosses his arms across his chest. "It's more humane anyway," he tries with a false shrug.

Rafa laughs, brushing his hands on his swim trunks as he stands. "Maybe fishing not for you. Mallorca, si. Fishing, no."

Andy's face twists and he looks out at the ocean, avoiding Rafa's eyes. "Hey, so, speaking of- Xisca said something, when she called to invite us."

"No listen. Everything Xisca say is lie."

Andy shrugs, resting his hands on his hips and trying to fake casualness. "She said that you and Carlos, ahh-" He waves his hand between their bodies.

Rafa's chest twists. "Ahh." He crosses his arms across his chest, spreading his legs for balance. "That one is true."

Andy fixes his gaze down as he digs at the deck with his toes.

"Was long time ago."

"Right." Andy swallows, hard enough for his Adam's apple to bob. Rafa can't look away from him.

"We were young, we drink lots. Is normal."

Andy huffs, and Rafa still can't look away from the way his throat moves under the stubble he hasn’t bothered shaving since he arrived. "Not so normal."

"Normal for the Armada," Rafa amends.

"Oh." Andy drops his neck to his chest, and Rafa reaches out, presses his fingers to Andy's arm. Andy looks up, his eyes dark and bright and defiant. "Are we-? Is that-? Normal?"

Andy drops his arms and throws his head back against the wall. He looks like that fifteen year old boy again, pale and shy, folding in on himself under the bright Mallorcan sun. So different from how he had looked just a few hours ago, flying across the clay like he had staked his claim on Rafa’s life, burrowing himself into Rafa’s home, the surface that’s made his career, into his island, into Rafa’s future.

Rafa steps closer, slotting his feet in-between Andy's and finally, finally, kissing that spot he’s been staring at at the base of Andy's throat. "We not normal," he promises. "Never normal."

Andy snorts, the sound vibrating under Rafa's mouth.

"Not the same. Not like Carlos," Rafa promises, grabbing Andy's hand and pulling him to the front of the boat, where Milos and Carlos are stretched out, quietly, in the midafternoon sun.

Carlos blinks open an eye, watching as Rafa brings his hand to the small of Andy’s back, his palm wide and warm and undeniable.

Carlos laughs, digging into the cooler and handing over two beers.

Andy takes them as Rafa grabs a towel, laying it on the deck and pulling Andy down to join them. Andy’s body is tight for a long moment, before he flattens his expression in determination, cracks open his beer, and loosens his muscles, allowing himself to stretch out alongside Rafa’s side.

Carlos whoops.

Milos sighs, pushing his sunglasses further up his nose. "I hate Spain."

**3\. Roland Garros, May 2016**

"Fuck," Rafa mutters to himself, swearing in Spanish under his breath as he shakes out the numbness in his wrist. It feels tight, stretched, hot, even under the cortisone shot and the hours of ice baths and massages.

"Okay?" Andy calls, sounding softer and more worried than he should two days before the first round of a Slam.

It sounds strange and incongruous in this setting. This is Roland Garros, thick with perseverance and determination and years of pushing through the worst of pain and the worst of self-doubt to make it. To win. To win nine times over.

Rafa wants from Andy even as he hates the sound of Andys concern. "Is trick," he calls across the net. "Make you underestimate me, no?"

"Never," Andy calls back. "Not here. Not this year."

Rafa's chest thumps.

Rafa's wrist aches.

***

Rafa leaves the pressroom to a standing ovation.

It feels like the end. No matter what he's said – to the doctors, to Toni, to his parents and Xisca and anyone who would listen – it feels like this is it, a goodbye, a swan song that never quite got off the ground. 

The ovation is a thank you, for his humility, for his passion and blood and sweat, and for his heart, for everything he's given and given up to win nine titles here.

It’s an ovation for all the things he's hidden, forgotten, pushed away. For all the things the press knows that it doesn’t know, and for one, startling, blinding moment, Rafa thinks about accepting it. He thinks about letting this be the moment of his retirement. 

He thinks about waking up every morning with Andy by his side, sleep-mussed and pillow-bruised. He thinks about Andy in Mallorca, futzing with his collar until Rafa slaps his hands away, about Andy muttering and flushing with nerves as he greets Rafa's family, introducing himself as more than a tennis player, as a man, as _Rafa's_. He thinks about Scotland, about mud under his rain boots and courts patched with grass, surrounded by little boys and girls with racquets held awkwardly in their hands, waiting to learn, to try, because Andy is a role model, whether he admits it or not. He thinks about opening his own tournament on his beloved island, about standing with Andy, hand in hand, as they bring tennis back to their two great nations.

Rafa aches with wanting it, his heart pounding in his chest in rhythm with the pounding in his wrist.

Both are aches he pushes aside. 

So he smiles and demurs, keeping his head down until he makes it into the hallway. He barely keeps it together until he stumbles out of the pressroom and into the private hallway under the stanchions of Philippe-Chartrier, and then he leans against the concrete, closing his eyes, sheer will and the pain coursing through his wrist the only things keeping him upright.

He doesn't know how long he stands there, trying to order his thoughts, trying to keep them away from the darker parts of his self-conscious, before he feels a shoulder settle against his.

It’s a shoulder he’d recognize anywhere.

"Today is no the end," he whispers, without opening his eyes.

Andy's breath catches in his throat. "You didn't tell me it was this bad."

Rafa listens to the hoarse in and out of Andy's breathing. Andy has the beginnings of a cold, with the rain and the chill and the stress, and Rafa focuses on matching his breathing to the syncopated rhythm.

"If-" Andy pushes away from the wall, stepping between Rafa's legs, and reaching for his wrist. "If we're gonna do this, you know, for real-" Rafa opens his eyes, but Andy doesn't meet them. "We have to start being honest with each other."

Rafa watches, entranced, as Andy holds his wrist so gently, tracing the edges of the blue cast, his bit, blunt fingers soft and careful as they slip under the cast, soothing against the skin grown pale and fragile since he started wrapping it in Madrid.

"We compete, no?" Rafa asks, without looking away. "Is weakness. Toni not like if you know."

"We won't compete forever." Andy's voice is low, reasonable and steady, like he's already thought through all of this and decided that it's inevitable. That, maybe, he's made terms with it, as he shrugs and continues, "Not for much longer even."

"No say that." Rafa leans back, wrenching his wrist away and wincing when Andy's fingers catch and pull at the cast. "The way you play now- Andy, you could be best. Next King of Clay, no?"

"Nah." He reaches out to soothe over Rafa's wrist again. "That's not my title to win."

Rafa aches and wants. "You can no stop playing."

"No," Andy agrees. "I can't, not now. But, soon, yeah?"

Rafa closes his eyes.

"I used to be scared to even think about retiring," Andy continues, leaning forward, his voice low in Rafa's ear. Rafa shivers. "Not anymore. Not for a while now."

He slips his hands under Rafa's t-shirt, warming Rafa's sides as he slides along bare skin.

"I'm looking forward to it, actually."

Rafa arches towards him, leaning into Andy's hands, letting them settle him, letting them catch him.

"I just need a couple more years. We both do." Andy presses a kiss to Rafa's neck. "Wait for me?"

Rafa surges forward, dropping his hands to Andy's waist, thrilling as Andy shivers as the rough edges of the cast pull at his skin. "Si, yes, wait, if you wait for me?"

“Yeah,” Andy agrees, low and simple, a promise Rafa intends on keeping him to.

Rafa bites his lip as he rubs the inside of his leg against the outside of Andy's thigh, slipping against Andy's compression shorts and pulling at the hem. "Not wait for everything, no?"

Andy groans, dropping his forehead to Rafa's. "You know I never say no, but, I'm here to make sure you're okay."

"I no okay," Rafa sighs. "But is better, little bit." He wraps the fingers of his right hand in Andy's waistband and pulls. Andy falls forward, laughing into Rafa's mouth.

"Okay, okay, I get it."

Rafa hums as he lifts his chin to kiss Andy, pouring a thunderstorm of emotions into Andy's mouth. Andy takes and gives as much back, pushing Rafa against the wall of Philippe-Chartrier and bracketing Rafa’s head between his arms. Rafa wraps his sore fingers around Andy's wrist, desperate, vulnerable, letting Andy hold him up for a long, comfortable moment, a steady port during the shit-storm.

"Ah, this is new."

Rafa wrenches away, only Andy's hand on the back of his head keeping him from slamming against the wall. Andy drops his forehead to Rafa's shoulder, and Rafa looks over him to see John McEnroe in the hallway, his arms crossed over his chest.

"I'd apologize for interrupting, but this is a bit of a public place."

"This has got to stop happening," Andy murmurs into Rafa's shoulder, his voice rumbling through Rafa's chest.

Rafa sighs, catching John’s eyes. "We make deal, no?" He asks as he squeezes the back of Andy's neck.

"I like deals." John shrugs. "I get the first interview after you retire, and I won't say anything between now and then."

"Is fair," Rafa agrees.

"Okay then." John nods, dropping his arms to his sides and starting to walk away, backwards. "I'm happy for you boys, but, maybe, choose someplace a little more private next time?"

***

"So," Chris Evert says, crossing her legs under the anchor desk and looking at the camera. "Mario Bartoli is here at Roland Garros as both a player in the Legends Tournament and as a journalist. She was in an area she could only access with her player's badge, and she saw Serena getting treatment for an adductor injury."

"Right."

"And then she reported it, as a journalist. I don't know, but it just feels wrong. Don't players need to feel comfortable in that locker room?"

"Definitely."

"As someone who's both a player here and a journalist, would you report something like that?"

John thinks about it for a moment. He thinks about Rafa and Andy in the players' hallway behind the pressroom, about the way Rafa's shoulders were a little straighter than they had been during the press conference and the way Andy's eyes were loose and warm.

"No," he says. "Not without the players' knowledge, no, I would never report it."

 **4\. Mallorca, Post-Wimbledon, June 2016**

Andy's knee slips and he catches himself on his wrist against the mattress, groaning as the change of angles pushes Rafa deeper. "Fuck," he murmurs, dropping his chin to his chest as his body adjusts.

Rafa spreads his knees, planting his feet on the bed for leverage and trying one, short thrust.

Andy swears, dropping his other knee onto the mattress by Rafa's hip. Rafa groans, unable to help himself as he pulls out a little and thrusts back in. 

"Raf, shit, just-" the words twist as Rafa pushes even deeper and Andy reaches down with his freehand, pressing against Rafa's hip to keep him still. "It's been a while, yeah? Give me a moment."

He's panting, breathing heavily through his nose, and Rafa squeezes his hip before trailing a finger gently up Andy's spine. Andy's chest is moving a-rhythmically, hitching as he attempts to bring himself under control.

His eyes are a little wild as Rafa reaches up to brush a lock of sweaty hair off his forehead. "You need haircut."

"I've been a little busy." Andy wraps his fingers in the sheet by Rafa's head and lifts up, just a little, before sinking down slowly, his mouth twisting with the sharp edge of pain.

"Not enough busy," Rafa chastises, pinching Andy's hip. Andy’s pale skin is flushed and damp and Rafa watches, fascinated, as the skin grows redder in the shape of his fingerprints. "Should have practice this, no? You are out of practice in most important part of game."

"Out of practice, huh?" Andy presses into the mattress, rising further off Rafa's dick and letting himself fall back down. Rafa gasps, and when Andy rises again, Rafa arches his hips to meet him. Andy grins. "Maybe if you hadn’t been sitting on your ass on the beach, I might have had some incentive."

Rafa's mouth twists, affronted. "I not sit on ass. I practice. Lots." He raises his right wrist, making a jerk-off motion with it.

Andy laughs, sitting up. It changes the angle again and Rafa scrambles for purchase, grasping wildy at Andy’s hips. "I did quite a bit of that kind of practice, too." He wraps his fingers around his dick, swollen and dark and already slick with precome, and jerks it against his chest to illustrate.

Rafa bats his hand away. "Practice not good if not right kind of practice. Ivan not taught you this?"

Andy groans. "Can we not talk about our coaches right now?"

Rafa shrugs against the bed. "I not talk, I show." He leaves his still-bandaged left hand on Andy's hip to steady them both, and trails the fingers of his right around Andy's back, lingering for a moment on that permanently-sore spot on Andy's lower back, before he trails his index finger down Andy's crack. He pauses for a long moment, tracing the edge of Andy's ring of muscle, before he slips inside, stretching Andy over the width of his dick and his finger.

Andy grunts, curling his fist against Rafa's chest and closing his eyes. "Fuck, that's a lot."

Rafa's face softens. "Is okay? If no-" He starts to pull his hand back, but Andy catches his wrist.

"No, it's-" He presses down on Rafa's finger. "Leave it."

Rafa smirks. "See? Is just practice. Make perfect, no?"

Andy tips his head back, rolling his eyes at the ceiling.

Rafa pulls at Andy's rim gently. "Also, I like picture you, like this, when I not there."

Andy drops his head back to meet Rafa's eyes, his pupils dark and dilated. "Oh yeah? Do you picture it when you're practicing?" He twists his lips around the word to substitute air quotes.

"Si," Rafa says, throwing his head back as Andy starts moving faster. His finger slips out, and instead he twists his fingers in the sheets, grasping for purchase. "Si, I picture. All the time."

Andy uses Rafa's chest for leverage as he pulls off Rafa's dick then sinks back down, the muscles of his thighs bunching and twisting with the effort. "Me too," he admits, moaning a little as the edge of Rafa's dick catches and pulls at his hole.

Rafa meets him, his hips arching off the bed, twisting until he finds the perfect angle. Andy swears, biting at his lip as he moans, pleasure tingling through him as sweat pools behind his knees and his elbows and in his hairline.

Rafa's stomach muscles pull and ache as he sets a fast, punishing rhythm, their bodies slick and warm above the sounds of their harsh beating. "Real thing is better than picture."

"Yeah," Andy's voice cracks on the word as Rafa brings his injured hand to Andy's dick. "Are you- are you sure you're okay?" Andy forces himself to ask.

"Is okay," Rafa promises, illustrating with a tight squeeze around Andy's dick, pumping quickly, matching the rhythm of their bodies.

"Fuck." Andy drops his chin, looking down his chest, to his own dick, red and heavy against the blue material of Rafa's cast, and below it, to the tan of Rafa's body, his muscles tight as he moves in and out of Andy, beautiful against Andy's pale skin. "I'm close- are you- please, Rafa, tell me-"

"Si," Rafa grunts. "Si, close, si- Andy," he whole body tightens, his muscles shaking around Andy as he arches and freezes, grunting as he comes with quick, elongated thrusts into Andy's body. "Very close," he says, finally, as he falls back against the pillows.

Andy laughs, "little late to tell me now," as he arches into Rafa's fist. "Come on," he orders and, when Rafa's fingers tighten around him, he groans. Rafa doesn't do much more than provide a tight, warm space for Andy to thrust into, but Andy's already on the edge and he comes, wet and messy, across Rafa's fingers and his cast.

Rafa raises his hand to his face and frowns. "You tell Toni I need new one."

Andy chuckles as he lifts himself, feeling Rafa soften and slip out. Rafa grunts and Andy falls to Rafa's side, staring up at the white stucco of Rafa's bedroom as he tries to catch his breath.

"Is your fault," Rafa reasons.

Andy shakes his head, kicking out at Rafa's ankle. "Go get a washcloth."

Rafa grumbles, but the bed dips and Andy can hear the sound of water being run in the bathroom. Rafa's gone longer than usual, and when he comes back his wrist is bare, the skin pale and withered where it's been hidden for months. 

"Is no fix," Rafa shrugs, as he traces the wet cloth between Andy’s legs, cleaning him gently. "For sure Toni will know why."

Andy hums, turning onto his side.

"Is no funny. Is real problem," Rafa huffs.

Andy closes his eyes, relaxing against Rafa, letting the afterglow pull him into the edges of sleep.

"Andy?"

Andy hums, not committing to being either awake or not.

"I not say congratulations. For Wimbledon."

Andy turns his head so that he can see Rafa in the moonlight. He's biting his lip, looking nervous, and Andy flips onto his back. "You said, in other ways," he promises. Rafa doesn’t look away, biting at his lip nervously. "Look, I know how hard it is, not to be there, and then to have me here, right after-"

Rafa cuts him off. "No, no, is not- Is not that. I glad you win. I glad you come here, after. Thank you, for share this with me."

"No one I'd rather share it with," Andy murmurs, low in the soft light of dawn.

Rafa shrugs, but it's shy, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, and he stretches along Andy's body, resting his injured wrist gingerly on Andy's stomach.

***

Rafa mutters and rolls into Andy's chest, still ginger with his wrist even in sleep. Andy takes a moment to get his bearings as he wakes, running one hand down Rafa's spine and tracing Rafa's wrist, gently, with his other hand.

It only takes that moment, though, for Andy to realize that he wasn't woken by the sun or the swish-whoosh of the sea. He raises his eyes to see Toni standing in the doorway, his hands at his hips, glaring at them both.

"Um," Andy tries, his voice sticking in his throat, thick with sleep.

"Good," Toni says, finally, his face evening out. "You here. You practice with Rafa. He need push, been lazy for many weeks."

Andy rubs the sleep out of his eyes, sitting up and letting the sheet pool at his waist. “I kinda doubt that Rafa’s been _lazy_.”

Toni ignores him, already half turning away as he pulls his phone out of his pocket. "I call Lendl. We make workout plan." Toni leaves before Andy can argue, calling back, "get dressed, I be back soon."

Andy falls back to the bed with a deep sigh.

Next to him, Rafa mumbles into his pillow and throws a leg over Andy's hips. Andy stares at the ceiling, running his hands up and down the strong muscles of Rafa's thigh, as he waits for Toni's inevitable return.

**5\. French Open, May 2017**

Rafa beats Novak 7-6 (5), 5-7, 6-3, 2-6, 6-4 in four and a half hours. It's a beautiful, sunny day, so different from the contrast of last year, the stormy fortnight of pain and frustration.

This year, the trophy is heavy in his arms and metallic on his tongue.

The crowd is loud in his ears.

All around him, he can hear the whispers and cheers in French, a language that's grown so close to his heart.

"Ten's quite a number. No one, not even the Minister of Sport, can argue with you now."

Rafa opens his eyes and the memories of the crowd and the noise fade away. The trophy sits at his feet in the middle of an empty Philippe-Chatrier court, the moon high overhead. "I get reward, no?"

Andy tilts his head, shrugging his shoulders. "It only seems fair."

"Si, yes, I think is fair."

Andy laughs. 

His feet are bare, and Rafa can't look away from the way his toes curl into the clay. "Is fantasy of mine, in the clay."

Andy chuckles again. "I know."

"I not say."

"You always say." Andy takes a step forward, bumping against the trophy as he wraps his hands around Rafa's hips. "You're an open book, Raf."

Rafa huffs. "Not so open. I beat you, two days ago."

Andy's fingers slip under Rafa's t-shirt to press cold fingerprints into Rafa's skin. "This time."

Rafa squirms, but doesn't actually pull away.

"You're something else on this court." Andy drops his voice, his eyes dark and heavy. "Thank you for sharing it with me."

Rafa looks away, back at Andy's feet, so pale in the moonlight. He doesn't know what to do in these moments, when Andy's shy and soft and so much of what Rafa's always wanted, but never dreamed he'd actually get. Even with the trophy – his _tenth_ trophy – at his feet, Andy still feels like the greatest thing Rafa's ever won and he just-

Andy pinches Rafa's hip, breaking the moment before Rafa can pull himself under. "Of course, if you'd like to share a little more of it with me next year, I wouldn't say no to that."

Rafa laughs, grateful, happy, wanting Andy to know that he's as much a part of this win as Rafa, himself, is. He pulls at Andy's t-shirt, stepping impossibly closer. "I share now, no?"

Andy hums noncommittally, but he pulls at Rafa's hips until they're crashing together, lips and chests and feet, slipping in the clay and falling, together, at centre court. The clay is thick and dark, still fairly fresh in a long strip where the net usually is, and Rafa pushes Andy down into the very center of it.

"I share," Rafa promises, again, as he straddles Andy's hips and reaches over to pull a tube of lube from the trophy. 

Andy groans, spreading his knees, his hands large and steadying on Rafa's lower back as Rafa shifts up, just enough so that he can reach between them and push Andy's shorts to his thighs. 

Rafa's muscles are still tight from the match, still cool from his ice bath, and the lube is lukewarm on his finger, but as he slips his hand between their bodies he feels sweat break out at his temples and behind his ears, his whole body warming as he remembers where they are, surrounded by 13,000 empty seats that, not so many hours ago, were filled with people yelling Rafa's name.

"You have no idea how close I was," Andy murmurs, keeping his voice low as he follows Rafa's thoughts. "Earlier, watching from the hallway, I almost lost it."

Rafa hums as he circles Andy's hole with the tip of his finger before he slips inside.

Andy grunts, arching into him. "What would Novak have said, if I'd lost it during those speeches? Just stripped you right there, in front of all those cameras?"

Rafa swallows around the warmth of Andy's body, the way he opens so easily for him. "Novak say is not appropriate, I think."

Andy hums. "He doesn't know what he's missing. None of them do."

Andy pushes his hips up, his dick flushed and leaking against Rafa's sweats. Rafa is thick and hard between his lengths, straining against the fabric, desperate to reach Andy. 

He adds a second finger.

Andy rises onto his elbows, pushing Rafa's finger deeper as he whispers in Rafa's ear. "I want to show you off. You'd like that, hmm? Let me turn you around, push your shorts to your knees, show everyone how strong you are, how hard you get for me, yeah?"

Rafa nods, closing his eyes, hearing the crowd cheer as he imagines Andy's fist around him. His hips stutter and Andy plants his feet in the clay, kicking off his shorts and bending his knees to cradle Rafa's back.

"I want everyone to know how you make me feel. How proud I am, when you fight and scrape and give everything you've got."

"Not," Rafa breathes through his nose, "everything."

Andy chuckles, dropping onto one elbow so that he can push Rafa's sweats down with the other. Rafa's hard, already mostly there, leaking pools of precome in the hollow of his own hip. "Yeah," Andy breathes, wrapping his hand around Rafa. "Come on, show everyone how quick I can get you there."

Rafa swears, stuttering between Andy's fist and his knees, his fingers pumping in a quick, unsteady rhythm in Andy's body. He remembers sprinting to the net, getting his racquet on a ball he had no right getting. He remembers Novak's face, slack in awe and surprise, as Rafa fell to the ground in victory. He remembers the feeling of clay on his back, his knees, his arms, sticking to him, painting him red. He remembers the roar of the crowd. He remembers catching Andy's eye from the corridor, remembers seeing him smile, remembers how much more this one means than all the others, because Andy was there, because Andy is sharing it with him.

He opens his eyes, catches Andy's gaze as his hips stutter, and he forgets, for a moment, that they're in the most important stadium of his career as he lets his sense be completely surrounded by Andy as he comes, thick and unsteady, across both their chests.

"Fuck," he says, his throat raw, when he comes back to himself. "Andy."

Andy's smile is soft, his arms covered in red dust as he reaches up to pull Rafa down into a kiss, arching off the clay to get friction against Rafa's chest. Rafa grunts, straightening just enough to get a hand around Andy's dick and a better angle with his fingers in Andy’s body, adding a third. Andy groans, rising to meet him, kissing him open and wet and slack, as his body shakes under Rafa’s.

Their breath is ragged and loud as they come down from it, echoing off the rows and rows of empty chairs. Rafa basks in it, dropping his forehead to Andy's chest and pressing a long, thankful kiss against his skin.

"You're right," Andy says, his chuckle ragged and breathy. "Novak definitely wouldn't approve."

***

Rafa wakes late the next morning, long after the sun has risen, but with Andy still tangled in the sheets next to him, snuffling into his pillow.

On the bedside table, both their phones beep and Rafa reaches over to pull his into the space between them on the bed.

J. Mac: _got time for that interview before your flight?_

Rafa frowns, careful not to wake Andy as he slips into shorts and the big, blue Under Armour hoodie Andy's been wearing around.

Toni's in the other room, a breakfast spread in front of him and the TV on low. When Rafa enters, he takes a sip of his coffee and he holds out a newspaper without looking up.

There are two pictures above the fold on the front page of Le Monde. The first is Rafa, sweaty and grinning, his teeth around the trophy. The second is Rafa, also sweaty and grinning, his body pressed against Andy's at centre court. It's blurry, clearly a still taken from a security camera, but it's definitely Rafa, and it's definitely Andy.

"Was going to happen sometime," Toni says, with a shrug, holding up a cup of hot cocoa.

Rafa huffs, but takes it and heads back to bed, the newspaper tucked under his arm.

In their bedroom, Andy's blinking awake, squinting against the sun, his thinning hair wild around his ears. He smiles, small and shy, when he sees Rafa in the doorway.

"No smile yet," Rafa warns, tossing the newspaper onto the bed.

Andy reaches for it, looking for a long moment before he pushes it aside. "Good thing they didn't let the video go another couple minutes."

Rafa shivers. "Si, is good, no?"

Andy hums, bunching his pillow under his head and closing his eyes.

"McEnroe wants the interview,” Rafa presses, wanting something, anything, from him.

Andy hums again. “Later. Are you coming back to bed or-?"

“Andy.”

Andy blinks, looking up at Rafa with slitted, sleepy, sincere eyes. “I’m happy, Rafa. I told you I was all in. A year ago, I told you.” He shifts, bending his knee and softening his shoulders, looking, suddenly, smaller and vulnerable. “Are you?”

Rafa doesn’t pause as he puts the mug aside and slips under the sheets. He finds Andy’s knee, squeezes, pushes his legs apart. “The happiest,” he promises, settling between Andy’s thighs. “Let me show you, no?”

“Toni’s in the next room,” Andy reminds him, even as he squeezes Rafa’s ass. 

Rafa shrugs, getting his fist between their chests.

The newspaper crinkles under their bodies.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading. Please come find me on tumblr if you want to talk about Andy or Rafa, writing, or really anything tennis/slash related! (link will be added after author reveals :))


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